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O children—she of Kypros is
Not only called “the Kyprian”
But is named many
Times with many names.
She’s death—and the realm thereof,
She’s undestroyable life,
She’s madness raving loose, She’s
Undiluted hot desire,
She is a wailing with pain,
With sorrow, with rage, with fear.
All real, excellent energy’s
In her, and all restedness too.
And all that leads us into
Violence. She pours in, She
Saturates thought and what’s
Inside the breast of all
That has the breath of life.
For who is not hungry
For this goddess? She goes
Into the swimming fish,
Into the four-legged
Creatures on dry land, and
Ranging among the birds
Of omen is Her wing [. . . ]
Among wild beasts, and mortals,
Among the gods up above.
Wrestling Her, which of the gods
Does She fail to throw three times?
If I have a right to speak
The truth—and I have the right—
Over what aches in the breast of Zeus
Himself She rules, and needing no spear-
Shaft nor iron to do it.
Plans, however many,
Of mortals and of gods, the
Kyprian cuts to pieces.
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